Mourning
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Princess Leia pays tribute to one death lost in the midst of millions. A little homage to Rogue One.


_a/n: an homage to Rogue One, sort of from Han's point of view._

* * *

 _ **Grief**_

* * *

That girl – woman? – the little fiery, angry thing, in the white dress and ostentatious hair – the _Princess –_ she vanished after the medal ceremony; evaporated, entirely, from the scene, and not a soul seemed to notice – he, Han Solo, figured they didn't concern themselves with her whereabouts, because a raucous, alcohol-laden victory party wasn't a proper place for royalty, anyway –

He concerned himself – he wasn't quite sure _why_ he concerned himself, but he did, almost annoyingly so; he noticed immediately that she disappeared, and he became eerily focused on sniffing out her location – maybe it was wounded pride, maybe he was still smarting over how she'd shown him up on that battle station, maybe it was attraction, because as young as she looked, she acted like the kind of woman he'd usually be interested in taking back to the _Falcon_ for the evening – perhaps, even, it was genuine, decent concern, because hell, he was a roughened, isolated criminal, but he was human, and her – planet, a whole planet –

He only vaguely dwelled on his motivations; they flickered around in the back of his mind obnoxiously while he prowled around, feigning participation in the hullaballoo until he slipped away, found himself strolling down the back steps of the Massassi ziggurat, breathing in the cool night air to steady his head –

\- and there she was, on her knees under a cluster of trees – and Han found it curious, because she was down in the dirt, without a care for that immaculate white dress, and her head was bowed, and her hands were at work in front of her.

He came to a slow halt, standing behind her, off to the side a little, with his hands at his sides. He watched, tilting his head a little, shifting, to try and see what she was doing – he saw a neat arrangement of rocks, and furrowed his brow –

He cleared his throat, and she sat back on her heels, whipping her head around sharply, the colour draining from her face.

She looked at him for a long moment, and then her shoulders slumped, and she put a hand to her neck, breathing out a quiet, long sigh of relief.

"You aren't very intelligent, are you?" she snapped, turning her face away from him.

Taken aback at the vitriol, Han narrowed his eyes, glaring. He folded his arms stiffly.

"Not a very diplomatic way to greet someone, eh, Your Highness?" he asked sarcastically.

Her shoulders stiffened, and she kept herself faced away from him, sitting with impeccable posture, even there on her knees.

"A _smart_ man wouldn't sneak up on someone who has just been held captive for an extended period of time," she said tightly.

Han frowned. He ran a hand over his elbow, thinking about that for a minute.

"Yeah, okay," he muttered. "Hey, I wasn't tryin' to scare you," he added seriously.

She was entirely silent, and he twisted his foot in the grass, digging it into some sandy dirt.

"What's someone who's just been held captive doing out by herself in a cluster of dark trees?" he ventured a little pointedly.

Her head turned a little, as if she were listening to him closely. She sat back on her heels, relaxing a little, and after a few minutes, Han stepped forward, coming around to her side. He looked down at what she was doing – again, saw more closely, the neatly arranged rocks – and the solemn Princess bowed her head, still silent.

Han studied it for a moment.

"Is it a grave?" he grunted quietly.

She shifted her head back and forth.

"Memorial," she murmured. Then, very softly: "There's no body."

Han nodded.

She closed her eyes.

"They're in there rejoicing as if no one has died," she whispered.

Han crouched down. He chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment, and thought of his days on the streets, as a kid – when the only way to stave of the crushing despair that came with fear of death, and fear of starving, and fear of – everything – was to have fun and act like all was well –

He didn't know how to put that into words – and as it were, he barely knew this girl, and he wasn't about to talk deep dark secrets with her. He watched her profile for a moment –

"So, who's this for?" he asked gruffly.

Leia tilted her head up, eyes to the leaves in the trees, and beyond, up to the starry sky. She pursed her lips –

"Friend," she said in a hushed tone, her voice very controlled.

Han jerked his thumb at the temple.

"One of the dead pilots?" he asked.

She compressed her lips, and shook her head.

"An intelligence officer," she corrected. "He died on Scarif."

"Scarif?"

"The battle – where we got the plans," she trailed off, falling silent. "His intelligence. Got us the plans."

Han didn't ask for details – didn't really care about the ins and outs of this military operation – and yet he felt a pull of curiosity, almost morbid, concerning her attention to detail with this little memorial –

"I didn't have time to – "

She broke off – the horrors on Scarif had happened so quickly, and she'd been fleeing so fast, it hadn't settled –

Han gave her a quizzical look, and ever blunt, ever lacking in a filter, he blurted –

"You're thinkin' about this one guy, when your whole planet was destroyed?"

She didn't look at him for a moment. She blinked hard, like she'd been slapped, and then her face softened, and she lowered her head, turning to meet his eyes very slowly.

"I cannot possibly cope with the magnitude of that," she said in a soft, cold, logical hiss, her expression terrible – controlled, and so icy, that he immediately felt how devastated she was, even if she hadn't allowed herself to tap into it yet – "I cannot comprehend the loss of, of – Alderaan – can you?" she demanded.

He thought about it heavily, putting one knee down to steady himself. He ran a hand over his jaw, thinking of the confusion he'd felt when he burst out of hyperspace into the wreckage, the sort of detached feeling that had ruptured his focus when he tried to make sense of the notion that a populated, ancient planet was just – _gone_ –

And that was how he felt – when it wasn't even _his_ planet –

Leia bowed her head, reached for a stone, placed it atop the arrangement she'd already configured.

"I have to start…here," she said softly, almost to herself. "He deserves to be mourned, as well," she murmured – "and he had no one."

Han was quiet, humbled. He shifted, and went from kneeling, to sitting, one knee still raised, his hand draped over it. Her dress was wrinkled and dirty, and he noticed it was wet, and sticking to her thigh in one place – muddy, from the damp ground she knelt on, and he noticed it not because it was particularly enticing, or sexual, but because the moisture on the fabric made it translucent, and through it, he could see red puncture marks, a large purple bruise.

He looked away, and down at the stones.

"So, who was this guy?" he probed. "Boyfriend?" he teased.

She tilted her head towards him, gave a hoarse, choking laugh – small, but genuine.

"Over my father's dead body," she returned huskily, and shook her head – "No," she murmured – "No, nothing such as that."

 _Handsome, sure_ – she thought – _and he put up with me batting my lashes at him_ – but he'd never have dared – she was a little Princess playing spy games, and he was impatient, and violent, and – as her father put it – _necessary, but a little too ravenous for blood._

Han smirked a little. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a blade, flicking it open, and handing it to her, hilt outwards. She gave it a sideways, suspicious look, and he encouraged her to take it, nodding his head.

"Go on, mark his grave," he said gruffly.

Leia took the knife. She turned it over in her hands, studying it, and then she leaned forward and placed the tip to one of the larger stones, beginning to carve in neat, determined strokes. Han sat back and watched her, thinking to himself – he'd figured she was spoiled, and out of touch, but maybe he'd been wrong – he supposed at this point, all things taken together, she'd seen more death and heartache than he had, no matter how much younger she was, or how many palaces she'd called home.

His eyes drifted back to the bruise he'd seen, and then he flicked his eyes covertly up to her neck, and her arms, his attention sharp – but he'd heard rumors at of torture procedure when he was at the Academy, and there was likely nothing on her arms if they'd done that to her; too visible – they'd put the needles between her toes, or in the little v's between her fingers – places likely to be easily covered -

She sat back, and handed him his knife. She looked at her work.

"Feel better?" he asked gruffly.

She gave a vague shrug.

She stood up, and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the cool air. She looked around, her expression unreadable. Han stood up, and slipped off his jacket. He placed it around her shoulders, standing next to her with his arm brushing hers, and looked up, following her gaze to the stars. She was very still, very quiet – hardly breathing – and then one of her small hands wrapped around his jacket, and clutched tightly, and she bowed her head, and burst into violent sobs.

Han used all of his self control not to leap away in alarm, and instead just stood there, not quiet offering comfort – would that be accepted, if he did, and if he managed to do it right? – but not callous enough to leave her alone, either.

"Hey," he said gruffly. He laid a hand on her shoulder, sliding his arm against her back hesitantly. "Y'know, it'll – be okay."

She gasped. It sounded like a shocked laugh.

"Oh, you're a pathetic liar," she accused.

He shrugged a little awkwardly. She laid her head against his shoulder, staring straight ahead, her voice, and her eyes, overwhelmed with tears.

"Well, what do you want me to say?" he asked grimly.

"Don't say anything," she whispered.

He fell silent.

He wondered if these were her tears for one person, or if it was all of it raining down on her – and if it was the former, what dreadful, unbearable grief was to come? He looked down at the neat memorial, the heartfelt arrangement of rocks, and read the name she'd carved –

 _Cassian Andor._

\- and he wondered, intently, if she felt such grief because this man had died, or because she blamed him for lighting the fuse that turned her world into violent specks of stardust.

* * *

 _i figure if Leia was working as a contact/undercover for the Rebellion, she probably was most familiar with members of their Intelligence_

 _-Alexandra_

 _story #348_


End file.
